Those Colours: poem

Those few weeks

your hand never left

an imprint in mine

Didn’t label ourselves

with those gestures

those few weeks

Too busy in long grass

under bridges

water at our feet

Laid me down

those few weeks

hair on bricks

hands in hair

against those high-topped walls, down

those fern-cracked steps, moss

under those fingers

on roots

on mud smeared skin

arms above heads

Gentle notes blown on bottles

gazes lingering on playing

smiles captured in necks

grinning towards leaves, green

against blue, and you,

golden under streetlights




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s